


Like breath into our lungs

by whiterabbit1613



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, No angst here, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, just body appreciation and bi-Jack, mentions of past relationships - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-24 20:57:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21105893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiterabbit1613/pseuds/whiterabbit1613
Summary: Jack's adventures in scent-memory.





	Like breath into our lungs

Jack loves lots of things about Bitty, of course: how he dances in the kitchen while baking, how seriously he takes his family's jam wars, how much he loves his mama, how his cheeks chafe red and his dark eyes narrow with focus on the ice. He loves the way their pillows smell like Bitty -- cinnamon, sandalwood, sleep-sweat. Sometimes Jack buries his face in them and just breathes. On a hard day, it calms him; on a good day, it makes him hard, low curl of heat in his belly. Jack knows how strongly scent is tied to memory. He breathes in the pillows and remembers.

It's unique. Kent had been all stereotypical boy-smells -- his favorite cologne, Speed Stick, peppermint gum and locker room. Kent had teased him, breathlessly, "Jesus, you sure love sucking my cock", which had been true -- nose brushing against stiff, blond hair, every sense absorbed by Kent. Camilla had her jasmine body wash, clean laundry, coffee on her breath and the exertion of a vicious match on the court. Jack had loved to bury his face in her nooks and crannies, the soft skin between her breasts or the pits of her arms, smooth and prickly by turns.

Bitty is sugar and spice and everything nice, and also snips and snails -- there is nothing worse than the smell of their front closet, keeping their gear convenient for pick-up games. Jack loves that, too, loves the reminder that Bitty may be small and sweet, but is also an athlete who can take a check from someone twice his size. 

Bitty comes back from Georgia once with a bottle of peach lotion -- "just like summertime, Jack, I swear I can feel the sunshine" -- and it seems to soak into everything, though Bitty uses it sparingly, and never when he's taste-testing. The sweet scent lingers in the house weeks after the bottle is empty. But then, sometimes Jack comes home to a bowl of peaches on the counter, perfect aroma filling the room, and the sense-memory is visceral --

\-- the muscles of Bitty's back, the strain of his biceps as Jack bites hickeys across his perfect ass, thumbs gently at his hole. Southern gentleman that he is, Bitty's still endearingly, slightly embarrassed that he likes it best like this, face buried in the sheets, knees digging into the mattress and spread wide; his blush spills all the way down his back, and the nape of his neck is warm when Jack buries his nose against it, buries his cock where Bitty's hot and welcoming. When Bitty's legs start to shake too much Jack tips them gently on their sides, snugs them all the way together and hitches Bitty's knee up toward his chest. Bitty cries out and Jack shushes him softly as he hooks his forearm under Bitty's thigh, wraps a hand around his cock. Bitty gasps, short sharp _"Jack!"_ and tumbles over the edge, pulling Jack after him.

They lie together, catching their breath. Bitty turns to kiss him, eyes sparkling and warm. Bitty's skin is smooth and peachy, and Jack takes a breath of sunshine.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a quote by Patrick Süskind.
> 
> The working title of this snippet was literally "peach emoji 🍑" because I am actually an inch deep
> 
> My brain: CP is great!! We should write fic!  
Me: Sounds good *cranks out half a dozen unfinished fics including deep introspective meditations on Jack's history with mental illness, the importance of youthful relationships, and magical realism*  
My brain: Wait!! Peaches! Butts! Bitty! BUTTS  
Me: *500 words of porn why*


End file.
